Through the Looking Glass: Seeing the Other Side
by MafiaAngel
Summary: A drabble series from the point of view of Muraki, Tsuzuki, and Hisoka. Depending on how far you've read into the manga, there may be spoilers. Enjoy! Please r&r as I want to know what my strengths and weaknesses are. Rated M for later (and possibly mature) content. Also, it goes without saying I don't own anything so please don't sue me. Peace! ;)
1. Chapter 1

Flawed perfection.

He ran his fingers over the dusty porcelain, feeling the smooth coldness of it against his fingers. Two lifeless green eyes stared upwards, blonde ringlets coated in a thin layer of dust. The dust in question seemed to collect more on the Victorian style crimson coat the doll wore, rather than the fine spun corn silk colored hair. Perhaps the one thing which marred such beautiful features, which made this inanimate creature flawed, was the single crack stretching across its cheek, dropping sharply to the left as it crossed the delicate bridge of her nose, ending at her chin.

Muraki had always found flawed perfection be enticing. It was different from the mundane, from the predictable. It was flawed, much like him. Much like Tsuzuki.

_"Kuzataka. Oh Kuzataka."_

Her voice no longer sent shivers down his spine. No. he had stopped fearing his mother when he was a mere child, just learning to walk. Now he could understand her way of thinking…her obsession with those perfect creatures, her dolls. The blonde corkscrewed doll whose cheek he had stroked had been one of her favorites. Another favorite would be…

Muraki shifted his gaze lower, dropping it to the lowest row of porcelain dolls. This doll was the most neglected of them all: pale porcelain skin stained with years of human oil, the aftermath of grubby human fingers pressing against it and not clensiing it with a Clorox wipe. The emerald velvet dress it wore was tattered near the hemline, the lace which rimmed the button down dress yellow with age. Locks of silver hair- _his_ silver hair he noted with a grim kind of glee- missing from its shiny scalp. One cloudy blue eye stared up at him, the other closed in a peramant wink. His mother had loved this doll by far the most, had called it "Kuzataka." When she had turned her back on him she ran to this perfect creature, cradling it in her arms. Its hair had been black then. It had only changed color when Muraki had made the foolish mistake of tearing all the silky blackness out by the roots, in a vain attempt for her to look at him. The results…well, they had been disastrous at worst, educational at best.

Strange, how even now all these dolls had stayed here. It was only with time that they had become flawed. _"Kuzataka aren't the beautiful?"_

He didn't turn to face her voice. Muraki knew it was all in his head. But he couldn't help but glimpse with his one good eye in that direction. His mother was kneeling beside him, one pale hand lovingly stroking a doll, while the other curled the "Kuzataka" doll close to her breast. Her thick blonde hair fell down, hiding her face. A face so much like his own. _"Oh Kuzataka,"_ she purred, holding the doll close. _"If only it could be just me and you. And no one else. Just me and you and all your brothers and sisters."_

"Flawed perfection," Muraki said. His voice was loud in the old room, even to his own ears. "What you hold is nothing more than flawed perfection."

His mother's image wavered for a moment and when he blinked she no longer kneeled there. No, it was his half brother Saki. Saki, Saki, precious Saki. Perhaps at one point Muraki would have forgiven his half brother for being born. Saki was like him after all: a twisted being, created from the womb of a pitiful woman and a philandering demon. But that was before Saki had taken away _her _attention. Before Saki's appearance there had been at least _some_ semblance of attention his mother had paid him. But now she had another doll.

Saki stood up: the groutqese image of what he had been in life, dolled up in a proper tux. Crimson blood trickled down his cheek, his chest red from where the bullet had come out. _"Flawed perfection, flawed perfection'," _he sneered. _"You sad little bastard! Is that all you know how to say? Or is I'm still haunting you even now?"_

Haunting him? Muraki smiled. He reached to stroke his half brother's cheek, his fingertips trembling mere centimeters from the ghostly pale flesh of Saki's cheek. "Just wait my brother," Muraki cooed. "We'll have a proper reunion yet." His fingertips dipped into Saki's cheek, going through; Saki himself dissipating into thin air.

Once more Muraki was by himself. Alone in an ancient room, in a condemned house on an unassuming street. Once more Muraki was in the company of dolls, the same dolls he had grown to both love and loathe. Once more, Muraki was reminded of the task at hand.

"A proper reunion yet…"


	2. Reaching Out

_The smell of cherry blossoms thick in the air as one pale finger trailed down his skin, leaving goose bumps in its wake. Hisoka couldn't move; his hands were tied again, the white leather belt biting into his sensitive skin with every struggle he made. "Now now," Muraki chided as he splayed his hand outwards, against Hisoka's soft stomach and the boy trembled. "If you scream your servants will come running. Unless you __**want **__them to see you trussed up like a pig?"_

_Hisoka could feel the lust rolling off the man in waves: the aroused pleasure at seeing Hisoka bound and at his mercy, at causing the teen to shiver from fear with the slightest touch. Muraki leaned in close, those two unnatural eyes drilling into his green ones. Muraki licked his neck and Hisoka shivered as the excitement for the bastard intensified. "Such exquisite taste," Muraki murmured in his ear as one hand trailed down the young teen's body. Hisoka followed it with trepidation, already knowing full well what happened. It was what happened every night Hisoka closed his eyes to sleep. _

_The sound of Muraki's zipper going down is deafening in the silence of the night. "Tsuzuki!" Hisoka whimpers as he feels hard hands positioning his legs wide apart, gripping his thighs. _

"Tsuzuki!" Hisoka gasped as he awoke, his body covered in a sticky sheen of sweat. The bright crimson of his curse marks stood out against his pale skin; a stark reminder of who would always own him, of the cruel enjoyment the doctor got out of Hisoka's terror. He took a deep shuddering breath, forcing himself under control.

It was at times like these he was glad he lived by himself. He threw back his sheets, allowing the cool air to touch his body as he slipped out of bed. He cast a glance at his nightstand where his cell phone was: the machine was charging. _Not yet,_ Hisoka told himself as he padded towards his bathroom. _I don't want the stupid idiot to break the speed limit coming over here. I can handle this on my own. _It was a comforting thought that Hisoka could deal with his night terrors on his own. But in the end, that's all it was.

The shinigami stripped off his sweat soaked boxers, rubbing his right wrist even though he knew there was no belt mark there. Hisoka tossed his boxers in the hamper and stepped inside the shower, turning the water on full blast. He bathed in the scalding hot water, praying it could wash off Muraki's touch if just for one more night. He closed his eyes.

"_Hey Hisoka! No matter what, we're partners right?"_

"_Yeah yeah. Geez Hisoka, you're like an old man."_

"_Hisoka, I love you."_

Hisoka found himself smiling at the easily excitable fool, even as his throat tightened. Tsuzuki was infectious. Even in Hisoka's mind, he could hear his partner happy voice, see that goofy smile. Hisoka fumbled at the knob, trying his best to see through his tears as he turned off the shower. Hisoka placed one bare foot on the cold tile, his body erupting into goose bumps as the cold air hit him. Hisoka walked over to the towel rack and picked up a white towel, wrapping the terry cloth around his waist.

Tsuzuki had once mentioned he loved him. But love…Hisoka had experienced love. Brutal and harsh with a dash of hatred and countless tears. He had experienced lust. Cruel and savage mixed with so much pain and unheeded screams. Hisoka never wanted to experience that kind of pain again…but not even that thought gave him pause as he sat down on the bed, holding his flip phone in one hand. Hisoka licked his lips and opened it with a flick of his wrist.

He typed in Tsuzuki's number with a trembling hand and pressed 'call'. His throat felt far too tight as he listened to the ringing; it was too early in the morning for anyone to answer a phone. And Tsuzuki loved his sleep. _Maybe he won't answer, _a small part of his mind whispered. The same small part that cringed at loud voices, at dark enclosed rooms and screamed at men that looked like archangels. _Maybe you'll just have to handle this one on your own?_

"Mwah?" a groggy voice answered. "It three in da morning…"

Silence. Hisoka opened his mouth but nothing was coming out.

"Hello?" Tsuzuki's voice was getting clearer; he was waking up now.

"Tsuzuki," Hisoka whispered, his voice faint even to his own ears.

"Hisoka?" Hisoka could hear the sudden anxiety tinged in the older man's voice. "Is everything alright?"

"Can you come over?" He hated how weak his voice sounded. How pathetic. Any normal, sane person would answer "no". Especially at this hour.

"I'll be there in fifteen," came the soft response. "And Hisoka?"

"Yeah,' Hisoka squeaked out.

"I love you."


End file.
